


For the Best

by Chaos_Elemental



Category: Runescape (Video Games)
Genre: Damn this is unearthing some old feelings, F/M, Lots of awkwardness, Perspective Flip, Sea Shanty II, Short Story, and self loathing, because killing a dream monster doesn't magically make your issues go away
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-12
Updated: 2020-10-12
Packaged: 2021-03-08 00:21:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,772
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26962834
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chaos_Elemental/pseuds/Chaos_Elemental
Summary: He shouldn’t have asked her to go to the bank. She probably — no,definitelyhad better things to do than sit with some poor sad idiot in a cave.But she came back anyway. He wondered why.The events ofA Hard Fallfrom Cyrisus's perspective.
Relationships: World Guardian/Cyrisus
Kudos: 8





	For the Best

The first time he met her, she terrified him. 

He could barely move or see. When a scarlet blob came into blurry focus over him, he thought it was some other monster coming to eat him; but he couldn’t run, or scream, and all he could do was groan and wait for the jaws to close around him. 

Instead, he felt something press to his lips:; tuna. Cold. He couldn’t — and didn’t — protest. Instead, he took a bite.

When the figure above him came into focus, the first thing he noticed was the hat. It was a nice one. It had a feather in it. 

The second thing was her eyes. They were green. Striking. Worried-looking, with maybe a hint of annoyance. Human.

He found the strength to speak, even though his lips cracked and his throat felt like it was lined with sandpaper.

“Help me.”

* * *

When he could see more clearly, most of the terror had washed away, save for the residual worry for the monsters lurking above. He still, however, couldn’t help but feel somewhat intimidated. Maybe it was the armour. Maybe it was her demeanor. Everything about her radiated energy; tightly-sprung, like she was ready to scream or fight at any second. 

Still, she was kind. She gave him biscuits, and lightly chided him for trying to explore the island without preparation. Oh, well. He deserved it. 

He shouldn’t have asked her to go to the bank. She probably — no,  _ definitely _ had better things to do than sit with some poor sad idiot in a cave. But the thought of going up there again… no, he needed armour. He could pay her, of course. Maybe she’d clear out his bank and be off, which was probably fair. He deserved that, too. 

But she came back, which surprised him. She was also surprised at the strength of the armour, and the contents of his bank. Why should she be surprised? It was just stuff. Something any fool could get at the Grand Exchange. Maybe she was just being kind.

Then, of course, came the questions. Everyone he’d talked to, of course, was always impressed with the summer pie and the spirit tree thing. But he’d managed to hide the combat side of it up until now. A man who could wield an abyssal whip and cast Ice Barrage, scared of fighting? He was a total joke. 

He never should have asked her to go to the bank.  _ Idiot! _ The game was up now. He’d be the laughing stock of Gielinor the minute she left. The front feature of the Varrock Herald’s Oddities section. 

But she hadn’t laughed. She’d been… impressed. She was probably hiding it rather well. She’d even suggested that he’d be able to take down a suqah. He wanted to believe her, of course. But she was probably just being kind again. 

He was waiting for her to ask for payment. That was only fair, and it gave him a sense of relief.  _ She doesn’t have to put up a front with me, _ he thought.  _ And I can make up for all the trouble I’ve caused her. _

* * *

When the Oneiromancer had told him about the dream trial, he’d felt it again: doubt. What the hell had he gotten himself into? Who was he kidding? He couldn’t fight. He’d be dead the moment he stepped in there. He shouldn’t delude himself.

But she’d stepped in and promised to help him. Again. That made sense, though — the more she did, the more she’d get paid. He hadn’t seen her fight, but he’d seen the trail of beaten-up suqahs she’d left behind. 

And then she’d said something —  _ We’ll _ have this handled.  _ We’ll  _ be fine. It was probably a small thing. She probably misspoke. How could she think he could be helpful?

But he should be helpful. She’d said he could beat up a suqah, right? Maybe if he watched her, he could learn how to fight better. Maybe he did have a chance…

Then there was the thing about the goutweed. He’d asked her about it afterwards, and she clearly didn’t look forward to it. The way she’d winced, and rubbed her head… 

It was a stupid idea, he told himself. It had come to him as he’d rummaged around in his pocket and found the choc-ice wrapper (where it had come from, he didn’t know). But the more he thought about it, the more he couldn’t let it go.

It was the least he could do, he told himself. And Nardah wasn’t hard to teleport to.

She was surprised again when he showed up, and he wondered if he’d been too forward. But she took the choc-ice and seemed grateful for it.

He shouldn’t have offered to help. But before he could stop himself, he said it. And she had said yes. No turning back now.

He also shouldn’t have offered her the dragon helm. Choc-ice was one thing. But armour? Wasn’t that rather personal? But having rocks bang into your head probably wasn’t healthy, no matter how thick a skull she claimed to have. And if she was going to get hurt on his behalf, he could at least mitigate it. 

He’d remembered running, while she was yelling in the background. He remembered reaching the crate, scrabbling around for the goutweed, something heavy colliding with his skull, and then everything going black.

He remembered waking up next to her in the next room over, his head throbbing. She looked none the worse for the wear, probably thanks to the helmet. That had dulled the pain a little. 

He remembered her grinning, as he showed her the pilfered herb. It was the first time she’d seen her smiling like that. Fierce. Triumphant. He wanted to see it again. And he wasn’t quite sure why.

* * *

He watched the fire in the brazier, his heart beating like it would burst.  _ I can do this, _ he told himself.  _ You’ve got the armour. You’ve got the weapons. You’ve got the moves… _

He looked over to her. Her expression was grim. Determined. She had her weapon out and ready, and it looked like she’d wielded it a thousand times.

_ This will be fine, _ he thought, as he poured the potion into the flames. 

It wasn’t fine.

He’d heard the monster roar behind him. He knew that, whatever it was, it was probably big. And horrible. And deadly. 

_ Stare at the lectern, _ he thought muzzily.  _ If I don’t think about it, maybe it’ll go away… _

She was shouting at him. He should probably turn around, he thought.

The minute he did, the terror came again, freezing his blood and locking his legs. Who  _ was _ he kidding? That he could fight this thing? He was going to die, he was sure of it. The best thing he could do was run — and, if he couldn’t, hide. So he ducked away, throwing his arms up and waiting for it to end. A miserable death for a miserable man.

Her shout roused him again. It was filled with anger — anger at  _ him _ .

He looked up. 

She had her back to the… thing, even as it struck her with all of its might. It was hurting her with every blow, but she wasn’t fighting it. Instead, she had her arms crossed, and was looking right at him.

_ Fight back! _ he thought as he trembled.  _ Or run! Do something! I’m not worth dying over!  _

But she’d stood her ground. Stubborn, trying to hide the pain with every attack. She would continue to stand there, he realized, until he did something. 

She couldn’t let herself die. Of course not. But that meant… she thought he would actually do something. Could he? Did she trust him enough to put her life in his hands? 

Something… woke within him. Anger. First it was at himself — standing there, the useless wretch he was — but then it turned to the monster. It was hurting her. It was  _ his _ monster. This was his head. What was it doing here? It had no right….

He stopped thinking. And let his body take over. 

He didn’t know what compelled him to run up to it like that. The anger. The fear. The worry. But he felt  _ alive _ , in some way that he’d never felt before. 

Why hadn’t it happened with his guard training, even after Sir Hugo threatened him with all manner of punishments? Why hadn’t it happened when the Handelmort boys had been hitting him, over and over, daring him to punch back? Why hadn’t it happened when he’d been running from the suqahs, as they’d landed spell after spell on him as he fled….?

She believed in him. The look she was giving him — it would be silly of him  _ not _ to fight. It simply wasn’t an option. 

And it wasn’t about him. He didn’t care if he died. If he couldn’t save his own life, then he was worthless. But someone else… 

And it worked. He felt the strength in his arms. He heard the monster gurgle and sputter, collapsing to the ground. Then the look of shock on her face. He’d managed to impress her. And he’d fought that thing. And he’d  _ won. _

And in that moment, with the dead Inadequacy behind him, he felt like he could defeat anything. 

* * *

He’d been surprised at how easy it all was after that. He almost wondered why he’d been so afraid. He  _ did _ know the moves. They were unpolished, of course, and he found himself learning and adjusting and adapting as he moved along. It was unthinking and calculating all at the same time. And he wanted more.

And the terror… it was gone. Freeing. He was free. He was worth something. He could fight. He could win. It was like opening his eyes for the first time.

When he’d made it back to the waking world, he almost expected it to fade the first moment he attacked something. Instead, the suqah fell after the first blow, dying too quickly for it to make a counterattack. So did the second, and the third and fourth and fifth. 

She’d caught up to him as he stared out to sea, thinking about where he’d go next. Port Khazard, the Wilderness, Death Plateau… Maybe she could show him….

No. That would be ridiculous. She’d put up with his nonsense enough already. Why expect her to do more?

He’d been surprised when she refused payment. After everything, why wouldn’t she? And she knew he had the funds. But she’d simply shook her head. Maybe it was an adventurer thing. She probably just wanted to get going, in any case. She kept giving him these odd looks, anyway. It would probably do for him just to leave. 

And he did. He’d likely never see her again, of course. But that was for the best.

* * *

He couldn’t stop thinking about her.

Why wouldn’t he? She’d taught him to fight… sort of. But It wasn’t just that. She was interesting. And probably the first woman he could talk to without wanting to run away screaming from.

Well, he’d wanted to do that at the start. But he hadn’t gotten the chance to. 

He wanted to talk to her more. Hear her stories. After all, how in Gielinor could a drunken parrot be used in a plot to get goutweed? He could probably learn more from her. 

And that smile. He did want to see it again. There was just something about it that made him feel giddy, and he didn’t know why.

He really shouldn’t have gone to the rock on Rellekka. He didn’t know why he knew she’d be there. Maybe one of the Fremennik had told him, or she’d mentioned it to him. Whatever it was, on Essianday afternoon he teleported over on a whim, and there she was.

It had been awkward, of course. What was he thinking? She probably didn’t want anything to do with him. She’d threatened to push him off the rock. He should’ve just left there and then. 

But he hadn’t. And she’d offered to buy him a drink. Probably out of politeness.

He’d accepted.

And it had turned out to be an unmitigated disaster. 

It was fun while it lasted. He was surprised about the arm-wrestling contest. The roar of defiance. The sheer power in her strength. 

What impressed him even more was the kebbits. How many of them had she had to get for that hat? How many hours had she been out on the cold, digging through burrows and snow piles? But she’d laughed it off like it was the most normal thing in the world.

He should have stopped right then and there. But they’d just ordered more rum, and she’d asked him the one thing he’d been most ashamed of. He couldn’t tell her, of course. Kebbits were one thing. Chickens were another entirely. 

So he’d run away, just like with everything else. 

* * *

He tried calling her to apologise. She didn’t pick up, of course. He tried to tell himself that she was just busy. But he knew he was just deluding himself instead.

Two weeks went by. He tried not to think about her, a task which proved to be nigh-impossible. When he heard about the new ferret exhibit at the zoo, he figured it would be a good distraction. 

And that had turned into something else entirely.

What could he say to her? That he was sorry? That he wanted to spend more time with her? He’d look like a loon. Even holding her hand as they teleported to Lumbridge filled him with a mad tension. 

Her admitting that she’d found him pathetic was strangely relieving. 

The fact she wanted to know him better was even stranger. 

* * *

And so that was that. Each week went slowly, and inevitably his thoughts turned to her, even when he tried to stop them. He missed her, even minutes after their departures. 

She was wicked and funny and strong, cutting down monsters with expertise and a dry quip. She was also stubborn as a yak. The first time they encountered a puzzle door in a pyramid, she instead opted to earth-blast her way through the wall, despite him pointing out that it would probably be faster to simply solve the puzzle. 

She intrigued him. When he’d blocked her from a blast launched by the King Black Dragon, she’d been… worried. He’d brushed it off, of course, despite him missing an eyebrow, but she’d still scolded him. He’d wondered why.

Over time, he felt more at ease around her. More relaxed. He looked forward to the end of each week. Even when she called him to ask him about farming questions, hearing her voice made him grin.

It was when he returned to Zanaris that he realised it, after the strange purple choir had materialized behind him and started reciting poetry. He didn’t want to admit it at first, of course. She was a friend. They did friendly things, like killing monsters and raiding dungeons and making fun of skeletons. 

But why did he want to teleport to White Wolf Mountain every time she touched him? Why did hearing her laugh make him feel lighter than air? Why did one day a week never feel like enough, even when they spent hours together?

Why did he lay in bed at night, and wonder what it would be like to hold her?

He was in love. There wasn’t any denying that. 

But he couldn’t tell her. Saradomin above, no. How would she react? Laughter? Pity? That someone like him would have a chance with her? She probably wasn’t interested in romance at all. She was too busy fighting and adventuring and going on quests for something as trivial as that. 

He nearly told her, though. On that night up in the tower, when the moonlight was bright enough to bleach her hair and she was gazing out over the ocean looking like the most beautiful thing in the world. 

He wanted to kiss her. Hold her. Tell her how lovely she was. But then that damn wizard came along…

And who was he kidding, he thought, as he teleported home afterwards. It was probably a sign from above, telling him not to even bother. It was probably for the best, after all. 

After that, he resolved to clear such thoughts from his head. He’d avoid her, and by the time they met the next week, it would be all over.

When he started working on the house, it was mainly so he’d have something to do with his hands. And so he could clear out his bank a little. But even as he worked on it, thoughts of her inevitably began to creep in.  _ What would she think of this room? Would she prefer an oak or a mahogany table?  _

Even after Mazchna called him about the dragon, and he brought it home wrapped in a wool blanket and started working on a dungeon, his first impulse was to call and tell her about it. 

Which he didn’t, of course. 

He nearly ended up missing their meeting time, and kicked himself the whole way to Lumbridge. When he didn’t find her there, he tried Rellekka, and almost hoped that she’d chew him out and call the whole thing off.

But she hadn’t. Instead, she’d been worried. And he’d been sheepish. And, in that moment of weakness, he’d suggested they go to his house.

Why that, of all places? Wasn’t the point to avoid her? But something within him wanted to show it to her. Impress her again.

And of course it had impressed her. And of course she’d avoided his gaze, probably out of sheer awkwardness. It was a bad idea, he told himself. The only salvage of the night had been Roland. 

And then the wine. And the silence. And the ticking of the clock. And wondering if he’d screwed up. Which he probably had. 

When she asked him if he was trying to court her, his heart almost stopped. 

_ Idiot! _ She’d noticed. The game was up. Back to lonely Essiandays, wondering where it had all gone wrong. Was it too much to hope that she’d forget it? Better to show her the door before he did something stupid.

And then there was… that.

He didn’t know what was happening at first. Her hand had touched his face, and he wondered if she was going to slap him. Instead, she leaned forward and…

He’d frozen, unsure of what to do. Everything was happening at once, his senses going crazy. She tasted of fine wine, and he could smell her — like scorched earth and soap and spice. He wanted to hold her. Touch her. Taste her. 

Something in him clicked, and he let himself stop thinking. His arms wrapped around her, and he pulled her closer.

When she pulled back, her eyes were gleaming, her face flushed. He didn’t wait this time, and instead kissed her again, tangling his fingers in her hair. 

He couldn’t describe it. It was like something in him had awoken and become unleashed. Her body against him. The smell of her. The feel of her. He wanted to hold her forever… and further.

He was surprised when she asked him. He’d always been told that women didn’t think like that. But would she be the one to wait? He asked her, just to be safe. And she’d been sure.

He wasn’t sure what compelled him to pick her up. He just wanted to. And it felt good, lifting her. Feeling the weight of her pressed against him. Stopping every six feet to kiss again. 

He was scared, when he put her down on the bed, even as they kept kissing. She, as with anything, was confidently brazen, while he was halting, cautious. 

Everything about her was perfect. Every curve, every inch of skin. Every scar. Afterwards, he’d traced over them, when he was no longer terrified of touching her, and asked her about each and every one. Revenant. Demon. Goblin. The bite on her shoulder from Elvarg. The burn on her side from a pyrefiend. The jagged slice across her back from a bandit in the Wilderness. 

That night was full of awkwardness, and slowness and quickness and energy and release, and feelings he never knew he wanted but now never wanted to end. 

And he’d held her, at the end of it all, with his nose buried in her hair and his arms around her, and wondered how he’d become so lucky. 

* * *

He was amazed when she was still there the next morning, sleeping soundly next to him. Which made sense at the crack of dawn, and only out of force of habit had he woken up this early. 

She was peaceful when she slept — perhaps the most placid he’d ever seen her. He wanted to hold her again, but also didn’t want to wake her, so he simply let her lie. 

Did he deserve this? Deserve her? There’d be a moment — he knew it — where something would happen, or someone would come along and take it all away. That’s how it worked, right?

But when he woke up again, she was there, even closer. Smiling softly, with a touch of deviousness. His arm was around her. He wasn’t sure how it got there, but he decided not to take it away.

And he let himself stop worrying, and simply kissed her.

* * *

He never knew he could be this happy. He never knew he could love someone this much. That the act of someone smiling could fill him with a warm glow. 

They had their arguments, of course. About small, petty things. Her odd sleeping habits. His tendency to overprepare for fights. They once went without speaking for an entire day after a disagreement about equipment loadouts.

Even through those times, though, he couldn’t even dream of being with anyone else. She made every moment beautiful — whether they were battling monsters or sitting next to each other quietly; or when they were lying in bed together, as he graced her neck with tiny kisses and ran his fingers through her hair. 

Even when he closed his eyes, the smell and shape of her were there, and he’d bask in her heat and presence, and she’d let him explore and love her like nothing was wrong in the world.

* * *

He knew something was off the minute the Contact spell rang in his head; while it wasn’t so late in the evening that it would be remiss from timing alone, usually she would just teleport to Ardougne if she wanted to talk to him. Her voice worried him even further — while it didn’t sound fearful, it was tense. 

By the time she told him she and Marianne were coming over, he’d grabbed his armour and begun to wrestle it on. A minute later and he was at the door, each passing second feeling like an eternity, waiting, waiting, worrying. 

When she came through the portal — tense, bedraggled, and smelling of mud and explosives — he wanted to hold her and tell her she was safe, but the hunted look in her eyes persuaded him otherwise.

When he heard the word _ assassins _ , he tensed again, feeling the itch for a fight rear up in his chest. She gave him a Look. And it said:  _ Not now. _

After the maid disappeared inside, he saw her practically sag, and  _ then _ he grabbed her and held her tightly, and she wrapped her arms around him and gripped him like an anchor in a storm.

And even though he didn’t tell her: that night, he had never felt more scared in his entire life.

* * *

She told him to stay out of it. Of course she did. The fear in her eyes almost matched what he was feeling, and it was a fear he’d never seen her bear before. She carried it with unfamiliarity, and it disquieted him — more, even, than the threat of Lucien, large though it loomed.

Maybe that was why he wanted to get involved. It was one thing to see her hurtle towards a monster with utmost confidence. But this was something else entirely, and the fear from the night before bubbled up to unpleasantly remind him. 

_ I can’t lose you. _

Of course she’d resisted. There was that fear again — she was trying to mask it behind her normal reckless conviction, and was doing so rather badly. 

And, maybe a few months before, he’d agree with her. She  _ could _ handle it on her own, with her strength and sheer bullheadedness. 

Now, however, something in him knew she was wrong, and that she knew it. 

And he knew, even if he didn’t have the strength and power he had, he would go anyways. 

When she’d gone out to see Hazelmere, he considered changing his mind. Instead, he’d gone down to the dungeon to play tug-of-war with Roland while he thought. Eventually, he reached a decision. 

Later she’d pressed the Ring of Life into his palm and looked at him with worry in her eyes; he’d almost faltered. But a second later, he'd had no doubts. 

_ I can’t lose you. _

And she’d sighed, and hugged him like she didn’t want to let him go, and he wondered if it was the right answer.

* * *

That night she’d watched her sleep next to him, unable to do so himself. The unpleasant thoughts lingered, and the time lent by insomnia had exposed certain conclusions that he’d tried to bury. 

He sighed, and looked to his hands. Would they be strong enough? Could they prevent the unthinkable? He wasn’t entirely sure. 

He carefully slid out of the bed. Moving as quietly as he could, he walked over to the desk and retrieved a sheet of paper, and a small candle stub — the light of which, he hoped, would not be enough to wake her. 

Asmodeus would be up at this hour, most likely — demons didn’t sleep, at least, not as humans did. The banks would still be open. The real estate office would be as well, with enough coin. Arrangements could be made — ones, he hoped, that wouldn’t be needed.

And so, dipping his quill in ink as feeble candle light flickered over the desk, he began to write. 

* * *

She said little the next morning, and he didn’t press her. He tried to remain cheerful, chatting to Mazchna when they got to Falador, but he couldn’t help but steal glances at her all the same.

She was avoiding him. He knew that when he saw her heading for the jail cell, and it was as much as he could to catch her before she left. 

They didn’t say goodbye, even if that was his intention. Why would they? She was coming back, after all. She said she would. 

And he would trust her to the ends of Gielinor.

* * *

Later…

He should have been scared. He should have wanted to run. Instead, when he saw her against the wall, the mahjarrat looming over her with the staff in his hands, he only felt rage, awakening and invigorating.

It didn’t quieten, even when Sloane and Duradel disappeared before him; it didn’t quieten when his whip broke, and it didn’t quieten when he noticed the scorched earth below him, and knew that the ring on his left finger would likely not work. 

Instead, one thought pervaded his mind, drowning out any fear or doubt or misgiving or inadequacy:

_ Get her out of this alive. _

When Lucien grabbed her from the ground, he looked to her once more, hoping she’d forgive him for what he was about to do.

“I’m sorry.”

With that, he leapt, punching and kicking as wildly as he could. Lucien dropped her, and relief washed through his body, even as the skeletal hands closed around his throat. 

The staff was glowing brighter now: blinding, bright as the sun. He couldn’t breathe; he couldn’t see. 

_ Is this what dying is like? _ he thought faintly.  _ I wonder what I was so scared of… _

As his brain swam and his vision faded, he managed to mouth one last set of words — ones he prayed would reach her. 

“Thank you.”

It probably didn’t have to end this way, he thought, as the staff began to spark. If he hadn’t met her… if he hadn’t chased her… if he hadn’t loved her… if he’d stayed behind...

Then he wouldn’t be here, would he? And she would be in his place, a thought that scared him more than death ever could. 

Then perhaps, he thought, as a wave of light consumed him…

It was for the best.

**Author's Note:**

> Huge thanks to [Fennfics](https://archiveofourown.org/users/fennfics/pseuds/fennfics) for beta reading.


End file.
